As if to guarantee himself against this awful sin,
Mr. Dempster seized his glass of brandy-and-water,
and tossed off the contents with even greater rapidity
than usual.
‘Have you fixed on your third delegate yet?’
said Mr. Pilgrim, whose taste was for detail rather
than for dissertation.
‘That’s the man,’ answered Dempster,
pointing to Mr. Tomlinson. ’We start for
Elmstoke Rectory on Tuesday morning; so, if you mean
to give us your signature, you must make up your mind
pretty quickly, Pilgrim.’
Mr. Pilgrim did not in the least mean it, so he only
said, ’I shouldn’t wonder if Tryan turns
out too many for you, after all. He’s got
a well-oiled tongue of his own, and has perhaps talked
over Prendergast into a determination to stand by
him.’
‘Ve-ry little fear of that,’ said Dempster,
in a confident tone. ’I’ll soon bring
him round. Tryan has got his match. I’ve
plenty of rods in pickle for Tryan.’
At this moment Boots entered the bar, and put a letter
into the lawyer’s hands, saying, ‘There’s
Trower’s man just come into the yard wi’
a gig, sir, an’ he’s brought this here
letter.’
Mr. Dempster read the letter and said, ’Tell
him to turn the gig—I’ll be with
him in a minute. Here, run to Gruby’s and
get this snuff-box filled —quick!’
’Trower’s worse, I suppose; eh, Dempster?
Wants you to alter his will, eh?’ said Mr. Pilgrim.
‘Business—business—business—I
don’t know exactly what,’ answered the
cautious Dempster, rising deliberately from his chair,
thrusting on his low-crowned hat, and walking with
a slow but not unsteady step out of the bar.
‘I never see Dempster’s equal; if I did
I’ll be shot,’ said Mr. Tomlinson, looking
after the lawyer admiringly. ’Why, he’s
drunk the best part of a bottle o’ brandy since
here we’ve been sitting, and I’ll bet a
guinea, when he’s got to Trower’s his head’ll
be as clear as mine. He knows more about law
when he’s drunk than all the rest on ’em
when they’re sober.’
‘Ay, and other things too, besides law,’
said Mr. Budd. ’Did you notice how he took
up Byles about the Presbyterians? Bless your heart,
he knows everything, Dempster does. He studied
very hard when he was a young man.’
The conversation just recorded is not, I am aware,
remarkably refined or witty; but if it had been, it
could hardly have taken place in Milby when Mr. Dempster
flourished there, and old Mr. Crewe, the curate, was
yet alive.
More than a quarter of a century has slipped by since
then, and in the interval Milby has advanced at as
rapid a pace as other market-towns in her Majesty’s
dominions. By this time it has a handsome railway
station, where the drowsy London traveller may look
out by the brilliant gas-light and see perfectly sober
papas and husbands alighting with their leatherbags
after transacting their day’s business at the
